


Ravens & Dwarves

by beargirl1393



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beargirl1393/pseuds/beargirl1393
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Kink Meme, which wanted either Thorin or Dwalin to fall into insanity after their partner died. Inspired by "The Raven" by Poe, and the poem is in the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ravens & Dwarves

_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,_

_Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—_

_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

_As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—_

_"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—_

_Only this and nothing more."_

Dwalin had fallen asleep over the book he was reading. He had done that frequently since the battle. He would work himself to the point of exhaustion, denying himself sleep for no other reason than that he was afraid, before he would run out of things to do and settle in with a book. He would nod off, usually passing several hours that way, until his dreams woke him up. Then, the cycle would repeat itself.

Tonight, however, was different.

Someone was knocking on his door.

_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;_

_And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor._

_Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow_

_From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—_

_For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—_

_Nameless here for evermore._

Dwalin shut his eyes momentarily. It had been several months, yet the pain hadn’t lessened. He wished it was morning; these things were easier to handle in the daytime. During the day he was busy advising the new king or training new recruits for the king’s guard. It was night that he couldn’t stand. He sought relief in books, but there was no relief in sight. Everything still reminded him of Thorin, his king, his friend, his One. He found himself blinking back tears as he thought of his One as he had last seen him.

_And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain_

_Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;_

_So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,_

_"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—_

_Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—_

_This it is and nothing more."_

The knocking came again, but Dwalin still didn’t move. He was frightened, although he couldn’t say why. Something inside him rebelled against the idea of opening the door, fearing something that he could not name.

“It’s just someone knocking at the door,” he growled to himself. “Not bloody likely that it’s an Orc or a Warg or another bloody dragon.”

_Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,_

_"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;_

_But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,_

_And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,_

_That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—_

_Darkness there and nothing more._

“I’ll be with you in a min,” Dwalin grunted, heaving himself out of his chair. He wasn’t going to sit and cower because some idiot didn’t know about the proper time to visit a dwarf. “I didn’ hear ya at first, ya woke me up.”

He opened the door, expecting to see his brother, or a servant sent by the king to fetch him.

Darkness greeted him. No one was there.

_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,_

_Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;_

_But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,_

_And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"_

_This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—_

_Merely this and nothing more._

Dwalin stood by the open door, peering into the darkened hallway, feeling his pulse speed up. Before he could stop himself, the name of the one he most wanted to see slipped out.

“Thorin?”

_Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,_

_Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before._

_"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;_

_Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—_

_Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—_

_'Tis the wind and nothing more!"_

Snarling at his own foolishness, Dwalin slammed the door shut and stalked back to his chair. Before he got halfway there, he heard a tapping coming from the door to the balcony.

“Somebody has a poor sense of humor,” Dwalin muttered, glancing at the door. He hefted his ax before heading towards the balcony door, determined to see who was trying to play him for a fool.

_Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,_

_In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;_

_Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;_

_But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—_

_Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—_

_Perched, and sat, and nothing more._

As he threw open the door to the balcony and hefted his ax to swing, he heard the beating of wings before a raven flew past him, landing on the mantle over the fireplace. It said nothing, merely sat and stared at him while he closed the door and set down his ax.

_Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,_

_By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,_

_"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,_

_Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—_

_Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"_

_Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."_

“What’s your name then?” Dwalin asked, approaching the bird. “I don’t remember seeing you before.”

The raven stared at him for a moment before cawing “Nevermore”.

_Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,_

_Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;_

_For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being_

_Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—_

_Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,_

_With such name as "Nevermore."_

Dwalin raised one eyebrow as he stared at the bird. “Who in Mahal’s name would call ya ‘Nevermore’?” He couldn’t remember ever encountering a raven named thus, and he had met several of the birds with odd names, though no so odd as ‘Nevermore’.

_But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only_

_That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour._

_Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—_

_Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—_

_On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."_

_Then the bird said "Nevermore."_

The bird didn’t answer, merely stared at him. It was as though everything he intended to say had been packed into that one word and the raven felt no need to elaborate further.

Dwalin shrugged. “You can stay for the night. Tomorrow you can return to the others.” He gave a slightly bitter smile as he said, “Everyone else leaves. My One left, and he took my dreams with him. You can leave as well.”

The raven stared at him for a moment before croaking, “Nevermore.”

_Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,_

_"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store_

_Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster_

_Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—_

_Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore_

_Of 'Never—nevermore.'"_

Dwalin raised an eyebrow at the bird. “Oh, so now you answer?” He shook his head, despairing at his own foolishness. “What am I saying? Your owner more than likely ran into trouble somewhere and repeated that word enough that ya took a shine to it.”

_But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,_

_Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;_

_Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking_

_Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—_

_What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore_

_Meant in croaking "Nevermore."_

Dwalin took a seat by the fire, stroking his beard as he thought. The raven still sat perched upon his mantle, not moving or showing any inclination to move. What did it mean by saying ‘Nevermore’?

_This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing_

_To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;_

_This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining_

_On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,_

_But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,_

_She_ _shall press, ah, nevermore!_

Dwalin considered all of the things that the raven could have meant, but he said nothing. It was watching him, but he ignored it as he looked at the chair opposite. Unbidden, an image of Thorin reclining there before the fall of Erebor, happy to escape from endless lessons on politics, passed before his eyes.

That scene would never be repeated. Thorin would never again sit there. He would never see his One again.

_Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer_

_Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor._

_"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee_

_Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;_

_Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"_

_Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."_

Dwalin huffed even as he felt tears spring to his eyes at the thought. It was all that blasted bird’s fault!

“Get out,” he snarled, pointing toward the balcony door. “Get out and begone with you. Take with you all of my memories of HIM, so that I may at last have peace. Take my memories and allow me to forget Thorin.”

The raven simply cawed, “Nevermore.”

_"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—_

_Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,_

_Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—_

_On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—_

_Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"_

_Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."_

“Bastard,” he hissed, glaring at the bird. “Is there something you know of, some medicine, to soothe this ache?”

The raven cawed, “Nevermore.”

_"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!_

_By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—_

_Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,_

_It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—_

_Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."_

_Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."_

“If you can do no more, tell me that Thorin is at peace,” Dwalin pressed, rising to his feet. “Will I see him, will I join him in Mahal’s Halls?”

The raven cawed, “Nevermore.”

_"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—_

_"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!_

_Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!_

_Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!_

_Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"_

_Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."_

“Get out,” Dwalin hissed once more. “Get out of here; leave this place. Take your miserable self back from whence you came and leave no memory of you here.”

The raven cawed, “Nevermore.”

_And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting_

_On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;_

_And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,_

_And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;_

_And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor_

_Shall be lifted—nevermore!_

The raven remained there for the rest of Dwalin’s life. Every morning he woke to see the thing sitting there, and every evening he fell asleep to the feeling of it’s eyes on him. The fire will cast his shadow upon the floor, and on his most morbid days Dwalin will think that his soul is down there too, sunk after he lost hope of ever seeing his one again.


End file.
